"Sure," he mutters to himself, as the car door slams shut, before pushing himself out the driver's side. "It's just a house. Like this island is totally just an island, and not a still active volcano."
The car door slams, and he's headed to the trunk to retrieve the box, but Steve's already nearly at the door, and he just flaps a hand at him. "Go on, I just want to make a quick call."
Hand already digging in his pocket for the phone snagged from the console, while the trunk creaks open and he looks down at the box, the trailing wires and mess of apparently unrelated junk. The number's still the first one on his phone, and he can feel tension lacing itself up his back as he hits it, lets it ring against his ear.
Which is nothing to the icy plunge of Rachel answering. Already disapproving. He still remembers when that accent was cute, not cold, when it didn't feel like a million boning knives flaying him alive with each disdainful word; remembers when there was a smile in her voice when she answered his call instead of this bricked up, steely distaste.
"I just want to talk to Grace," he says, nudging the phone between his shoulder and ear so he can lift the box with both hands. Snugs it against a hip, reaches to slam the trunk shut. "Yeah, I know I talked to her already today. Look, something's come up, okay?"
The house door shuts, and he looks up, too late to watch Steve go through it, but his eyes stay on it for a long minute, anyway, considering. "Well, it looks like I might get transferred. No. Not out of Honolulu -- look, will you please just put Grace on?"
Shifting his weight, box on the trunk, so he can run his palm over his mouth. "Yeah, I know it's early to transfer. Just -- please? Grace?"
When she finally gives in, he waits, watching the doorway of the house like it might be a snake about to bite him -- until the phone picks up and Danno! sounds like a clear bell in his ear and washes him with warmth. "Hey, Monkey."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2014-09-09 01:16 am (UTC)The car door slams, and he's headed to the trunk to retrieve the box, but Steve's already nearly at the door, and he just flaps a hand at him. "Go on, I just want to make a quick call."
Hand already digging in his pocket for the phone snagged from the console, while the trunk creaks open and he looks down at the box, the trailing wires and mess of apparently unrelated junk. The number's still the first one on his phone, and he can feel tension lacing itself up his back as he hits it, lets it ring against his ear.
Which is nothing to the icy plunge of Rachel answering. Already disapproving. He still remembers when that accent was cute, not cold, when it didn't feel like a million boning knives flaying him alive with each disdainful word; remembers when there was a smile in her voice when she answered his call instead of this bricked up, steely distaste.
"I just want to talk to Grace," he says, nudging the phone between his shoulder and ear so he can lift the box with both hands. Snugs it against a hip, reaches to slam the trunk shut. "Yeah, I know I talked to her already today. Look, something's come up, okay?"
The house door shuts, and he looks up, too late to watch Steve go through it, but his eyes stay on it for a long minute, anyway, considering. "Well, it looks like I might get transferred. No. Not out of Honolulu -- look, will you please just put Grace on?"
Shifting his weight, box on the trunk, so he can run his palm over his mouth. "Yeah, I know it's early to transfer. Just -- please? Grace?"
When she finally gives in, he waits, watching the doorway of the house like it might be a snake about to bite him -- until the phone picks up and Danno! sounds like a clear bell in his ear and washes him with warmth. "Hey, Monkey."